The Origins (THE NARRATIVES OF VAMPIRES, BOOK 2)

PROLOGUE

Passland, September 6th, 416 BC

The evening sun was tired as well as its last rays. It had already touched the horizon. The sun's remaining piece was pretty close to disappearing into the visible western horizon. From the hills in the east crept the darkness. Birds had retired to their nests having completed their last song of the day. But for bats, it was time to lose the grip of their hang for a 'new' day.

Passland was done with the day. Xander's house was no exception. The old man, after dining earlier, was in bed snoring and the lamps were close to going off when a bang boomed through the old house. Somebody, who didn't mean well, was at the main door.

Being the only one who'd move and defend the home, his son Monsoni, never troubled his dad. He picked up the kitchen knife and ran down the stairs. The family dog left his beloved bones alone and joined him in sending the intruders away. This is how they had gotten used to theft. It was not only safe to prepare to deal with intrusion but to always have the weapons of defense at your arm's reach.

Along the corridor, Monsoni's bare left foot hit a pot. He lost his balance, tripped and the dog overtook him. He had no time to soothe the pain on the toe neither the one on the palm that just saved his torso from connecting with the floor. He rose and approached the door with his knife ready.

"Excuse me. To whom it may concern!" he shouted, "You came to the wrong house. I order you to-"

The next bang must have stopped him as the weak door lost the hold of the latch, flew in with its sweep disturbing the dust on the floor. The brave dog charged forward and leapt to devour the intruder.

As the dust settled and he adjusted his vision, Monsoni visualized two fully-grown men, in helmets, standing in the space the door left with lit torches in their opposite arms. Their servant dog was now suspended by the man on the left's firm grip on the dog's nape. The relentless dog was swinging his feet trying to escape by scratching the hand away. He was overpowered though. It was clearly evident.

With these type of events before him, fear crept up Monsoni's spine as he stood there. Rooted to the ground and confused like a tired antelope that wandered into the path of hungry lions.

Our neighborhood is under siege, he thought so, The bandits are here.

"Who the hell are you?" he managed to separate his lips and mumble.

"Wow!" Was the response before a despising laughter came from behind the men in helmets. Then, the same person commanded, "He's the one! Get him!"

Monsoni didn't believe he heard these words correctly. Gathering his strength and speed, he dashed off. He was hiding in a pot in the lower room of the house before anybody flicked their eye. The path he followed was now blocked with everything he'd come across. This didn't stop the men at all. Their heavy footsteps came and violently ransacked the residence till their rough hands fished him out.

"Who are you?" he queried them, "What do you want?" Getting no reply, he changed his mind and begged them, "Please don't hurt me. Please stop it" His pleas fell on deaf ears as the three men roughly bundled him into a cage. Before they jumped onto the front of the wagon, he did what any captured helpless person could do, he begged again, "Please. You have me confused with somebody else. I am Monsoni. I am not Xander. I am just the son of the trader-"

They stopped. Their helmets turned until all their eyes were on him like they were going to correct the mistake and that's when the short man in charge yelled, "Shut up boy!"

"Please-"

"Boy? Whom do you think you are?"

"I am Monsoni-"

"The sins of the father will be paid by the son. Open your lips not boy. Don't make me drive my sword through your throat and ruin everything."

"It's not fair. I-"

Clicking, the intruder injected, "Stop whining boy! You're spoiling my work!"

Monsoni obeyed. Obliging was the only sensible thing to do.

"We've had a long day boys, let's get out of here boys!" he gave a final order. One of his tall juniors pulled the reins and the neighing horses moved. The man in control and his other junior engaged in a conversation. Acting like Monsoni was not there. As the journey continued, more wagons joined them and in them were teenagers as well. All seemed disturbed.

Monsoni cried and cried as the distance between him and his village increased. This felt like a dream. He knew his father had many debts. And he wondered which shylock had come for him. Days before, somebody, a spirit, had warned him in a nightmare that he'd be up for sell to offset his father. He knew that his life had now changed. He knew he was now owned. Owned as a property. Owned as a slave or as they called them in a city that had an influence over their Passland, an helot.